Ruminations on Luna
by AnnabethLuna
Summary: Just a few thoughts on my favorite character. "Please join me now in raising your glass to the less-loved, less-noticed, less-honored, but no less important, Luna Lovegood."
1. Chapter 1

**A few remarks on Luna's character traits . . . I don't own the girl, but I do own my thoughts.**

_She is strange._

But not in the way that everyone thinks. She is friendless because no one is willing to accept the social danger that comes along with accepting her. No one will subscribe to her strange beliefs, or even condescend to befriend her despite them.

And yet, she does not discard them. She does not compromise her beliefs for the sake of being liked.

She is unusual not because of what she believes, but because she refuses to give it up.

_She is strong._

She is lonely, lonelier than she'd ever admit. Being called "Loony" every day wears on her, and it hurts when all people do is tear her down or steal and hide her possessions. But if she cries herself to sleep at night because of her loneliness, the endless teasing, she never lets on, and she never gives up her hope for better things.

_She is devoted._

There is a reason she stays strong: She loves her parents more than anything in the world, and doesn't want to disappoint them. She is loyal to the memory of her mother, the most outstanding woman she has ever known. She tries every day to live up to the values her mother taught her: kindness, determination, pure love, and courage. The memory of her mother keeps her going in the darkest times.

She is the ultimate "daddy's girl" as well. Her father passed on most of her unusual beliefs, and gives her the strength never to give them up. He reminds her not to be afraid of what people say, and he is the reason she has never compromised herself.

She loves them both more than anything. They are the most important thing in her life.

_She is a Ravenclaw._

She's clever, yes, and does well in school, but that's not enough to make you a Ravenclaw. Her brilliance lies in the _way_ she thinks and _what_ she sees. Her eyes seem to be able to penetrate the fog of convention, and social norms, and all that is "acceptable," to see what's really there. She can read subtext, tell what people are not saying, and what they really are. She knows why you are lying when you are, and she knows what you really want to say.

She's a Ravenclaw because her mind is open. Why shouldn't Crumple-Horned Snorkacks exist? Why can't there be heliopaths and Wrackspurts? Just because you can't prove that something is real doesn't necessarily mean that you can prove that it isn't.

_She is just._

She can see the line between right and wrong, and she believes in it. She makes sure always to stay on the right. When she does something, she makes sure there is a real, _right_ reason why, or why not.

She believes that all things are equal. House-elves should have just as grand a burial as any human. Goblins are equal to us in every way. Just because not everyone can see thestrals does not mean that they are creatures to be scorned.

She has many quirks, many characteristics, which all define who she is. But one thing is always for sure.

_She is extraordinary._


	2. Chapter 2

**I was in a bit of a whimsical mood when I wrote this one, but I still believe it's true. Luna is something no one can really grasp. Again, I don't own her, but J.K. Rowling is a genius for creating her.**

Ethereal, dancing on tiptoe through the meadows and the flowers, fluttering through life, ever so slightly over the surface, her feet barely brushing the blades of grass.

She is not a person, not an animal, not an insect, not a ghost, but something _other_, hovering in the barely-there void between the four. She is unearthly, but she is not heavenly, either. She is fey, she is spirit, and yet, she is still, wholly and inexplicably, human.

Sometimes she is young, with all the innocence, naiveté, and wisdom of a just-born child, and sometimes she is old, older than all the others on the earth, as though she was born _with_ it, with the universe itself, just another creation of the chaotic darkness which, somehow, managed to produce a home.

Except that she has parents.

Parents she emulates, parents she adores, parents without whom she would not be who she is. Parents who, somehow, affected her, even as they are, as is everyone else, affected by her.

Her voice, her eyes, are silver like the wind, like the ringing of bells, like whis-pers in the dead of night, like the moon. Her hair is golden, like the stars, like the har-vest, like the thrill of victory, like the sweet but sad month of September. Her skin is ivory, like the dusted keys and piercing notes of a piano, like a mother's words to her newborn child, like the swimming from dreams into wakefulness. She is the color of all that transcends reality.

_She_ transcends reality.

Sometimes she wakes up at night, tiptoes from her room, and dances alone in the yard, barefoot under the light of the moon.

She believes that's where her mother is, now. Up in the moon, looking down and watching over her child. Sometimes she believes she can see her mother's smile in the face of the moon, if she just looks hard enough.

She believes in all the things no one can see, because there is already so much that is intangible – love, hope, dreams, joy. If that can exist, if that cannot be seen or heard or touched, then that is proof enough that everything that cannot be seen can exist.

She cries sometimes, diamond tears soaking into her pillow at night, when no one can hear her. Cries for her mother, for her father, for the way no one else seems to under-stand what she can see. Cries about the narrow-mindedness of life.

But life cannot be narrow-minded, when one such as she can exist.

She is the child of the moon, the stars, the darkness, and the light. She is night, and day, and animal and human and spirit and wind. She is dream and reality. She is everything and nothing. She is the whistling of the wind, blowing softly over an open moor. She is the rumbling of thunder when it roars overhead, warning the world of its presence, and the soft falling of the snowflakes, with a sound you can almost hear – almost – if you just listen hard enough – and then it has sunk into the ground and dissolved away.

She is light, and heavy, and she dreams but she lives. She brushes every life she touches like a butterfly wing – a light touch you do not even notice is there until it's gone, and then spend the rest of your life trying to get back.


	3. Chapter 3

**This one stems from me feeling impatient with how many people overlook Luna - even in their stories - for the other five. I have a lot of respect for the other five, don't get me wrong, but Luna has a special place in my heart and I want her to be recognized. I don't own anything.**

Harry was the Chosen One. He was the leader of their trio, unquestionably, and the famous one. Everyone knew about him, whether they liked him or not. He was the one marked as either the symbol or the opponent. Even though there were two candidates, even Voldemort chose Harry as his foe, _marked him as his equal_. He was chosen. And even if he might not have chosen it himself, even if he disliked the attention, he still had it. He was still The One.

Hermione was the smart one. She was the one who raised her hand in class, always had the answers, the one who dreamed up the strategies. She was smart, there was no denying that. She came up with good plans, and, if she didn't know everything about everything, she knew something about almost everything. She was famous for her brain.

Ron might not have had a title, might have felt overshadowed by his brothers and his friends, but he was there, too, in the thick of it, and just as respected as Harry and Hermione, even if he didn't know it. Respected for his strength, and his daring, and his loyalty, and his willingness to do anything for his friends. And his name came right after Harry's – because somehow, you couldn't say their names any other way.

Neville was the second Harry. Though he had always grown up hearing about his failures, and weaknesses, and how he wasn't worth it – possibly even more damaging than what Harry's relatives did to him as a child – when the occasion came, he rose to it. He worked hard, and he spoke out, and he found his voice and his strength. He was the leader of Dumbledore's Army, and respected by everyone in the school – even the Death Eaters and the Slytherins, loath as they might be to admit it.

Ginny had always been noticeable. Never having to face the standards of the Weasleys before her, because she was a girl, she was known for her beauty, her sharp tongue, and the temper which was as hot as her flaming red hair. She was the one all the girls wanted to be, and all the boys wanted to be _with_, before and during the Carrows' reign at Hogwarts. She was smart, funny, and beautiful. She had it all.

But what was with the sixth member? Though just as important as the other five, she was never seen so. She had no title, no recognition, except perhaps for _the odd one_.

The only one not in Gryffindor, the only one never to be acknowledged for her courage. And yet, possibly the most courageous of all, the one who stood up for herself and never backed down after years of taunts, bullies, and the nickname that everyone, _everyone_ uses – Loony. The one who survived the death of a mother she loved – loves – and the one who still takes care of her father. The one who faced just as much as the others did during her sixth year at Hogwarts, and yet gets so little recognition for it. The one who loves unconditionally, and yearns to be loved in return.

The one who, as smart as Hermione, never mentioned it, and was never noticed for it. The one who survived months in the basement of Malfoy Manner, survived torture and starvation and punishment for something she had not done, and yet was not noticed because she had not been in the thick of the action. The one who saved Mr. Ollivander's life – or at least sanity – and received no plaudits from anyone else who received wands from him later on.

The world owes her so much, but it has given her so little. No plaudits, no title, not even the love she has always craved. So please, join me now in raising your glass to the less-loved, less-noticed, less-honored, but no less important, Luna Lovegood.


End file.
